


An Experimental Science

by anathemagerminabunt



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemagerminabunt/pseuds/anathemagerminabunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first time Douglas meets Martin is in 1979. The first time Martin meets Douglas is in 2008.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In which Martin time travels, Douglas is perplexed, and Martin accidentally makes Douglas fall in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Currently tame as far as rating, but will be Mature in future chapters.

**2008:**

The first time Douglas meets Martin is in 1979. The first time Martin meets Douglas is in 2008. Neither man is aware of this at either point, of course, though it quickly occurs to Martin what is happening-- an unfortunate side effect of his... talent is that he's often meeting old friends he's never seen before.

"...I'm sorry?" Douglas intones after an achingly long and awkward silence that is only growing more so. He's gone pale, openly staring, and makes no move to accept the proffered hand.

Martin drops his arm, flushing. It's not that he expected a warm welcome from his new first officer, especially when he considers the fact that he most likely took the position of captain out from under the man's nose. But he hadn't expected this-- forced politeness, pointed indifference, even outright hostility, sure, but not stupefaction. He blinks, glancing in vain toward the closed portacabin door for help. "I, er. I'm the new captain?" He immediately hates how unsure he sounds. "I mean, no, yes, I _am_ the new captain. Captain Martin Cr--"

"Crieff," Douglas finishes, seemingly breaking from his spell.

Immediately Martin realizes that it's happening again. "Oh. Ah, that's-- we've met?"

Douglas doesn't answer at first, making no effort to hide the way he inspects Martin from head to toe. After a long moment or two, he shakes his head and retreats to the desk. "I couldn't say. You're a dead-ringer, I mean absolute _clone_ , for a man I once... I believe I knew your father."

"My father? Oh!" Martin shifts in restlessness as his anxiety climbs. "W-what a coincidence. You knowing my father, that is. And now, here we are, you a friend of-- of Dad's and me your new boss," he stammers. "Not-- not that I'm your boss! I mean, yes, obviously I am, but really Mrs. Knapp-Shappey is the boss and I'm just your superior. Not that I think I'm superior to you or anything! Just that my rank is superior to yours, me being a captain and you being the first officer and all. I mean--"

"Good god, your apple didn't even bother to fall from the tree did it?" Douglas cuts in. "It's like being in the room with the man himself." A pause. "Ah-- how is your father?"

"Er--" Martin hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. While his actual father has been dead for well over a year now, it's growing more and more obvious that in this case, _he's_ his own father. "He's uh, well--"

Douglas' expression grows grave as the silence stretches on. There's a flash of something raw in his eyes though it lasts less than a second before it's gone. "I see. Strange, though, he never mentioned he had a son. Let alone one graced with both his name and appearance."

"He never mentioned me much at all." That, at least, is true. Carefully, treading hazardous ground now, he asks, "How did you know him?"

"We were acquainted, briefly." There's a short, hard quality to Douglas' voice when he says this. As he clears his throat, skillfully avoiding Martin's gaze, he barrels on. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, junior, and likewise for you I'm sure. But let's just skip all the stilted introductions for now, shall we? My sincerest apologies of course, but I just remembered a previous commitment so if you don't mind..."

"What? Oh, right, no, of course not." God, what had Martin done (and what will he do) to the man to provoke a reaction like _this?_ "It was nice to--"

Douglas escapes before Martin can finish his thought, the door falling shut behind him with a bang. Sighing, he turns to the desk, trying to ignore the fact that his first day as captain ( _captain_ ) is already going completely off track and sinks into the nearest chair with an air of defeat.

 _Well_ , he thinks in an effort to reassure himself, _it could be worse._


	2. Chapter 2

**1979:**

"Oh god," Martin whispers, staring down in horror where his hands rest clenched within Douglas'. They're sitting close together, practically touching from ankle to thigh to hip to shoulder, and he can't exactly recall when it is they got so close. "Oh, god, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying, _Captain_ ," for the billionth time since arriving, Martin regrets accidentally introducing himself as Captain Martin Crieff-- considering the fact that he's technically not even in primary school, let alone received his coveted promotion, it's more humiliating than anything, "that I like you. I care about you, a lot. You mean something to me, Martin. I know we haven't known each other long, but I'd like the chance to get to know you better." He smiles, looking so achingly _Douglas_ that it hurts. "Starting, say, Friday night at eight?"

For a nanosecond, Martin imagines accepting the date. Only for a nanosecond, but it leaves behind a flash of barbed regret nonetheless.

He drops Douglas' hands as thought he's been scalded and recoils to the other side of the sofa. "No. On god, _please_ no. Don't say those things. You _can't_ say those things."

Douglas, to his credit, remains composed and unruffled, minus the spark of doubt and pain in his glance. Watching it is like a slap to the face. "I don't understand. Is something wrong? Martin, are you all right?" He reaches out, confident and sure.

"No!" Martin jumps to his feet despite his every nerve and muscle straining with the desire to get as close to Douglas as possible. "No. Don't... oh god, I'm sorry. I am, I am so sorry. You have no idea how much I want this. How _long_."

"Martin," Douglas soothes, brow knit in confusion. "Martin, it's okay. You can have this. You can have me. If you want it, you can have it." He purses his lips, watching the other man pace in frenzied panic. "Is this-- is this because you're worried about other people finding out? I told you, the homosexual thing doesn't matter to me and we can keep this quiet for as long as you want. I'm not going to force--"

Martin falters in his step, clinging to the back of the wingback chair. He does not dare to turn his head and meet Douglas' gaze. "No. Please, you have to stop. You can't say these things, not to me. You're not supposed to say them to _me_."

"Martin--"

"No!" Whirling around in his outburst, Martin can only imagine how frightful he must appear, face red with exertion and cheeks streaked wet. _Good_ , he thinks with a touch of hysteria, _Good, let him think that I'm repulsive_. "No, Douglas, that's it. There's nothing more to say. That's just how it is."

"I don't understand. I don't... why are you doing this? I want you, and damn it, if I want to tell you that fact I _will_. I want--"

Martin flinches, keeping his line of sight no higher than the carpet. With careful, deliberate steps, he crosses the small room and fumbles for his coat, dragging it off the hook and over his shoulders without bothering to slip his arms inside. He shakes his head with firm determination, one hand on the doorknob.

"Y-you may think that," Martin announces suddenly, too cowardly to face this man that is quite literally his past, present, and future. "But see, I d-don't want you. I don't want you and I n-never will. So just do yourself a favor and forget the whole ridiculous idea!"

He slams out of the flat before he has a chance to take it all back. The sight of Douglas' devastated expression sears into his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahaha. Again, the Mature-ness will happen eventually, just not yet. Bear with me, with my probably wonky aging, and the most confusing timeline ever.

**2008:**

Martin has met himself on four different occasions (so far):

***

The first time occurred when he was six. The family trip to London was long awaited by everyone, but most particularly by young Martin, who had been promised a trip to Heathrow on the condition of good behavior. They spent three days in the city, attending a pantomime, going to the British Museum, wandering through the Tower of London, and dining out two nights in a row, as well as a whole host of other activities. It wasn't until the last day, on the way out, that the family grudgingly made the trek to the airport.

Of course, Caitlin and Simon did their best to ruin the outing, starting with endless complaints about how stupid and boring it would be, followed by countless games of keep-away with Martin's stuffed bear, and ending with an invigorating session of 'stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself'. By the time they actually reached the short-term carpark, their father was infuriated and stressed to the point of no return, so his mother offered to take Martin on a tour by himself while the others waited. It was the best possible thing that could have happened.

Martin and his mother spent a bit of time wandering past customs and through various gates before settling in front of one of the largest windows Martin had ever seen in order to watch even larger jets take off, land, and taxi. It was a blissful half-hour for the child and still remains one of Martin's fondness memories.

Eventually it had to end. Martin manfully sniffled back his tears and whining, following his mother through the terminal with few glances over his shoulder. They stopped before a bank of bathrooms where Martin's mother informed him, "Mummy needs to use the toilet, sweetheart. I want you to wait _right here_ , do you understand? Don't move, stay _right here_ , and I'll be back soon. Okay?"

He agreed, and spent a full minute fidgeting in place and watching the lucky people passing by on their way to ride in a real plane. It was only after that that he realized someone was talking to him.

"I said are you lost?"

Martin turned around, looking up at a redhead man peering at him in concern. He shook his head, suddenly overcome by shyness.

"Are your parents nearby?"

He nodded at this and pointed a shaky finger toward the loos.

"Oh, I see. Well, do you mind if I wait for my friends here by you?" When Martin nodded once again, the man held out his hand and smiled. "Good. I'm Martin."

"But that's my name!" Martin exclaimed, forgetting his bashfulness.

Martin-the-adult simply grinned. "Is it? What a coincidence. Are you traveling today?"

"No," Martin-the-child muttered mournfully. "We're just looking at the planes."

"You know, I like to watch the planes too. They're fascinating, aren't they?"

Martin beamed. "Uh-huh! Are you going to fly in a plane today?"

The man laughed. "I should hope so. I'm a First Officer. They couldn't very well leave without me, could they?"

Martin gasped, eyes growing wide. "You get to _fly planes_." Never in his life had he heard of anything cooler. "That's so neat! I'd love to fly a plane."

"Well," Martin-the-adult said thoughtfully. "Maybe one day you can be a pilot too. It takes a lot of hard work and sometimes takes more than a few tries to do it, but I think you fulfill the 'passion' requisite."

Martin opened his mouth to say more but was interrupted by the sound of his mother calling him. "I've got to go. Nice to meet you, Martin!" He giggled, racing away and toward his mother, mind swirling with the thought that _he_ could _fly a plane_.

For years he thought the other man was just that-- another man with a coincidentally similar name.

***

The following two occasions were less pivotal to his development.

At the age of fifteen, Martin met a man in his forties in a petrol station somewhere in Wales. It was during the usual dull camping trip, and Martin had managed to escape the tedium under the guise of investigating the nearby village. He was browsing through a bin full of terrible paperbacks, praying that he would find something mildly interesting, when a white car pulled up outside and a man climbed out. For reasons unknown to him at the time, Martin spent the next five minutes watching the man fill his petrol tank before coming inside to pay. By the time he left, Martin was in the clutches of the strongest feeling of déjà vu in his life.

Then, at the age of twenty-one, heartbroken over the latest exam failure, Martin encountered a strangely sympathetic man in a pub. He was already well on his way to drunk despite not really having the money for it, when an older man with red-and-gray-streaked hair sat down beside him. They got to talking, in the way only two strangers in a pub can, and by the end of the night, Martin was heartened to have learned that he wasn't the only one to ever fail the same test two (or more, in the case of the stranger) times in a row. Maybe he too could pass with just a little more effort.

It isn't until much later in life that Martin remembered these incidents.

***

The fourth occasion was when Martin was twenty-four.

He was living in Fitton at the time, staying in the attic of a house full of students, desperately seeking his pilot's license as well as enough money to cover his monthly bills, but certain that his misfortunes were only temporary. Standing outside of a cafe with his wallet open, quickly working out whether he could afford to treat himself to lunch or if he should just return home for a cheese sandwich, he heard the voice.

"Oh god," it rang out behind him, "oh god, it's _me_."

Martin turned around, startled, and came face to face with himself.

"Oh god," they said in unison.

The first Martin (and he found it telling that he always thought of this older version as the 'first') cursed loudly. "I'm sorry, I forgot-- you caught me by surprise. I completely forgot about today." He winced, holding out his hand. "Listen, this is going to sound crazy to you, but my name is Martin Crieff. I'm fifty-eight years old. And I, er, I'm you."

"Actually," Martin squeaks, throat tight and heart hammering, "that would explain a lot."

The older Martin sighed and visibly relaxed. "Good, right. I thought you'd say that. I think, maybe, that we should talk."

"I think so." He swallows hard. "And I think I might have a few questions."

They spent the next four hours at a table just inside the cafe, lunches growing cold while Martin did his best to bring himself up to date.

***

Martin has met himself four times (so far), but he has never met a version of himself that is younger than his late thirties. As of now, two days after accepting the position of Captain with MJN, Martin is thirty-two.

He has five years left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point in time, what with Martin's personal timeline being all wonky, Douglas is twenty-five while Martin is thirty-seven. I think all other questions should be made clear, but if there's anything confusing to you, let me know.
> 
> And finally, the some of the porn you've been waiting for.

**1979:**

They have dinner that Thursday night.

“Try the veal,” Douglas presses, pushing the platter toward Martin. “I promise you that it is nothing short of superb, and you could clearly use a few good meals in you. Have you been living on table scraps, Captain?”

“Close enough,” Martin mutters under his breath. Louder, he remarks, “It's all wonderful. You're rather good at cooking.”

“You think so?” Douglas grins. “Hmm, yes. I rather think I am.”

A few minutes pass in relative comfort, a familiarity that only one of them understands seeping into their every gesture. Eventually, unable to ignore the elephant in the room for another moment, Martin sets his cutlery down and asks,”Douglas? Why am I here?”

“What? For dinner, of course. I thought the company--”

“Is quite... nice, yes.” Martin interrupts. “But I thought you had plans with--” He stops himself before he can say 'your first wife'. “With Angeline. I mean, you barely know me, and now you're inviting me over for god-knows-what, and I just think you should know--”

“What,” Douglas languidly remarks, “on earth goes on in that mind of yours?”

Martin flushes, glancing away. “I didn't mean... oh god, forget that I said anything. Just forget all of that.”

Douglas reaches for the last of the green beans, smirking. “Of course. Unrelatedly, I'd like to take this moment for the non sequitur that is my telling you Angeline is currently visiting her parents for the weekend, that I'm glad you could come by for a meal between what I would like to think are friends, and that I enjoy having you around and getting to know you, Captain.”

“Oh.” Martin swallows hard. “Oh, well that's... that's good then. But, I mean, you _have_ only known me for a few days. I'm practically a stranger.”

Douglas hums thoughtfully, clearing his plate and rising to take it the short distance to the sink. He pauses beside the kitchen counter. “I suppose you are. Oddly enough, you haven't felt like a stranger since those first five minutes.”

Martin busies himself with the clearing of the table for fear of giving anything away.

It takes them nearly fifteen minutes to deal with the leftovers and the dishes-- one of Martin's most hated chores, though it hardly feels the same this time. Once everything is put away and the counters are wiped down, Douglas reaches into a cabinet, dragging out a bottle of brandy and waving it enticingly.

“Shall we retire to the billiards room?”

Martin rolls his eyes, following the man into the living room and onto the sofa. “Really, Douglas? Brandy? Do you think you should?” Immediately, he mentally curses himself for this slip-up.

Douglas starts. “I don't see why not. Tell me when.” Salvaging two short glasses from somewhere, he pours them both a healthy amount, handing one to Martin and raising the other. “To good health and even better company.” The glasses clink with a resounding echo.

“Blearg,” Martin gasps, draining the liquid in one quick swallow. “Good god, that's vile. Why on earth would anyone willingly drink that?”

Douglas laughs. “More for me, then.” They remain this way for some time, Douglas casually drinking while Martin watches in muted horror. A subtle tension slips between them, the air in the room growing heavy with reluctant expectation. “Martin,” he begins, “can I ask you something?”

“Oh, um, yes. Yes, of course.”

“You were a Captain. You miss flying, I can see it in your eyes. You live for it, don't you? So why on earth aren't you piloting now?” Douglas carefully eyes him over the rim of his glass. “You've never said what you're doing here.”

Heart rate rising, palms growing slick with sweat, Martin's stomach begins to churn and knot. “What?” he manages, voice only mildly higher than usual. “I... what do you mean?”

“Why,” Douglas presses, “are you in this godforsaken town, sitting here with someone over a decade younger than you, pretending to drink brandy? Why aren't you 30,000 feet in the air, commanding a crew and harnessing the sky itself?”

_Think_ , he tells himself. _This is no time to panic. Think!_ “I've recently... relocated.”

“I see.” Douglas' voice seems to indicate that, yes, he sees everything quite well, thank you. “And your girlfriend doesn't mind?”

“My--” Martin can't help himself, barking out a sharp laugh. “Oh, that's a good one. My _girlfriend_ , that's-- oh, you were serious?”

Douglas blinks, long and slow. He opens his mouth as though about to say something before closing it quickly and taking a moment to scrutinize Martin from head to toe. “Ah.”

“'Ah'? What 'ah'?”

“Why didn't you just say so in the first place? Did you think I'd mind?”

Martin pales. “M-mind?”

“That you're a homosexual.”

All oxygen is immediately sucked from Martin's lungs. He gapes for awhile, struggling to regain the power of speech before squeaking, “How-- how did you know?”

Douglas merely arches an eyebrow. “Come now, Martin. If anything, I should have seen it before.” He pauses, taking in the sight before him. “I don't mind, you know.”

“You... don't?” Martin exhales heavily, hands wringing where they rest in his lap. “I mean, that is to say, I know a lot of people in these days--”

“I'm hardly a lot of people, Martin,” Douglas cuts in, a slightly offended tone settling between them. “I would hope you knew that of me by now.”

“No, yes, you're definitely... definitely not.” There's a sharp pang somewhere deep within Martin's chest. “I just--”

“It's alright.” Reaching across the space separating them, Douglas rests his hand on top of both of Martin's, settling their twitching with a firm grasp. “Whatever it is you're not saying-- don't give me that look, I know there's something-- whatever it is, it's okay.”

Martin inhales sharply, staring down at the hand covering his own. It's been so, so long, but he shouldn't. Douglas is due to be married in a few months, whether he knows it or not, and Martin promised himself-- _promised_ \-- that he wouldn't--”

“Hey,” Douglas softly breaks in, his other hand gently cupping Martin's chin to tip his head up and back. “I mean it. It's okay. Whenever you're ready...”

“I can't,” Martin whispers. “It's complicated. I can't--”

“Shh.”

It takes nearly a full thirty seconds for Martin to realize that Douglas is kissing him. That Douglas' mouth is on his own, that it's Douglas' tongue gently pressing against his lips, that _Douglas_ is kissing _Martin_ and oh god, how could he let this--

He stops thinking the moment Douglas makes that soft sound, a cross between a hum and a moan. Instinct takes over and before Martin can stop himself, he's wrapping his arms around the other man, pulling them flush together as he deepens the kiss. It's intoxicating, unbearable, and so _familiar_ \-- he can't stop this. He should, but no matter what, he knows that he can't. Not when he's already lost this forever.

“An-Angeline,” he gasps as Douglas presses open mouthed kisses along his jawline and neck. “Oh god, that-- you--”

“We're not official,” Douglas murmurs into his clavicle. “Please, let me. I know we barely--”

“Yes, now, oh god, Douglas, _please_.” Martin reaches out, half-climbing into Douglas' lap to cling to his biceps, riding out the waves of arousal and pleasure rolling through his every nerve.

“You don't mind bedding a younger man?” His lips quirk against freckled skin.

“Don't say that,” Martin pleads. “Don't talk like that.”

“Mar--”

He gives up all control and restraint in that moment, attacking Douglas with mouth and hands in a frenzy of need and want. Making quick work of buttons, Martin shoves Douglas' shirt from his shoulders and leans in, nipping at the man's shoulders in a way he knows he likes. As he does so, one hand trails down Douglas' chest to lightly scrape over a nipple.

Douglas involuntarily bucks upward, groaning low and deep. “O-oh _god_ , Martin, how--”

“Need you, god I miss you,” Martin mutters, closing his eyes against the overwhelming sensation. “Please, now, I _need_ you to give me this.”

To his surprise, Douglas freezes in place for a beat before a long, violent shudder takes him over. “Oh god, you-- you have to stop talking. Right now, just let me...”

The next few minutes are a blur. Hands roam, mouths sloppily press together, and before long Martin is stripped of his shirt, both of their trousers open and pushed out of the way. Unable to stop himself, Martin presses their hips together, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see this younger, different body than the one he knows.

“Yes,” Douglas purrs into his ear, panting as he thrusts upward. “Yes, like that. My god, you look...”

“Touch me,” Martin gasps. “Please, oh god, _please_ , touch me.”

Douglas moans, harsh and low, clumsy as he hurries to free Martin from his pants. Martin returns the favor quickly and soon they are both stroking one another, filling the room with the sounds of skin on skin. They cease talking at this point, harsh breaths and soft groans taking the place of words, as everything begins to build to the point of no return.

“Oh god, Martin,” Douglas cries out, arching upward. “Yes, right-- right--” He keens as he comes, trembling with enough force to nearly unseat Martin.

Watching Douglas' orgasm is more than enough to trigger Martin's own, and entirely too quickly they're collapsed against one another, still shivering slightly as they struggle for breath.

“That--”

“We shouldn't have done that.” Martin leans back, tucking himself back into his pants and making his trousers presentable once more. “This isn't what happens.”

“What-- what happens? What are you talking about?”

“I have to go.”

“Wait, Martin--” Douglas reaches out, catching his wrist. “Tomorrow. I want to see you tomorrow. Please.”

“I--”

“We can just talk.”

Eventually, Martin concedes, “Alright. Tomorrow.”

“Martin, I--”

“Please don't say anything else.” He swallows, closing his eyes briefly. “For now, can we just not say anything?”

Douglas drops his wrist. “Okay. Whatever you want. I meant what I said earlier, you know.”

“That's just the thing,” he replies, gathering the rest of his clothes and shoving his shoes on as he turns for the door. “I know you did. That's exactly the problem.” Sighing, Martin opens the flat door, averting his gaze. “Tomorrow. We'll talk about this tomorrow.”

And in the meantime, he'll figure out a way to fix what he's undone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering the issue of time travel, there may possibly be some problems with informed consent in this chapter.

**2009:**

Six miles outside of San Francisco, in a tiny motel clearly best known for its variety of rodent population, everything simultaneously begins and ends.

“What do you mean we're sharing?” Martin cries out, aghast.

“I mean exactly that. I'm not sure what part of the statement 'you and Douglas are sharing room one-seventeen' has you so confounded, Martin,” Carolyn breezily answers, dangling the keycard before him yet again. “Now hurry up. I'm exhausted and I still have to deal with Arthur's nightly rendition of 'Pirates of Penzance' while he showers.” When he makes no move to take the card, she reaches for his hand and shoves it into his grasp.

“Oh, really, Carolyn,” Douglas begins.

“Save it. You're sharing a room and that's final. There simply isn't money enough in the budget for three.” This said, she turns on her heel, striding down the pavement and toward her own room, where Arthur waits outside the door.

Martin mentally winces, gripping the keycard hard enough for it to gouge into the palm of his hand. Allowing himself a few deep breaths and absolutely not thinking about what it will mean for him and his self-control to share a room with Douglas for an entire night, he says, “Well, I suppose we should get on with it. We've a long flight tomorrow and--”

“Yes, yes, just open the bloody door.”

Martin sighs, doing just that. The room itself is exactly as expected-- tiny and dingy, with most of the space being taken up by one rather small double bed. It's everything that inhabits both Martin's worst nightmares and greatest dreams.

“Charming, isn't it,” Douglas dryly remarks, pushing past Martin and into the room. He drops his bag to the right of the bed, frowning as he looks around. “My god, Carolyn's absolutely topped herself this time. We'd be better off at the kennel for the night.” He glances over. “Think it's too late for that?”

“Knowing your luck, they'd just return you to your owner.” Carolyn's name need not be said.

Douglas makes a face, strolling past the bed and into the bathroom. “Fair enough. Good god, what lived, died, and consequently decomposed in here?”

“Nothing poisonous if we're lucky,” Martin mutters. Louder, he adds, “Look, it's a dismal room, I get it. We both get it. Now can we just _please_ get some sleep and--”

Douglas reappears. “Yes, yes, alright. You can have first crack at the shower. Based on the amount of green fur growing it in, I believe I'll pass.”

“Ah, right, well, me too, I think.” Martin drops his bag onto the bed, coughing at the dust that this unsettles. Once he's able to breathe again, he digs through his clothes for his night things, forcing himself to stay calm and not think about the fact that he and Douglas will be sharing a bed. If he does, there's no telling what he might do or say.

“Go ahead and change,” Douglas is saying, checking his watch as he crosses to the door. “I've got to call my daughter before she leaves for school.”

“Oh, right. I'll just...”

By the time Martin returns, teeth brushed and faced freshly washed, clad in a loose-fitting pair of pajama bottoms and a threadbare t-shirt, Douglas has returned. They awkwardly move around one another as Martin climbs into bed and Douglas takes his turn in the bathroom. It isn't until he is out and sliding under his side of the covers that Martin speaks.

“Do you always do that?”

“Do what? Use the toilet?” Douglas asks, rocking the bed as he settles down. “Why, yes, I believe I do. A few times a day, even.”

“No, not-- Douglas,” Martin warns. “I meant call your daughter. Do you always call her when you're away?”

Douglas reaches over, switching off the light. “Hmm? Oh, yes, when I can. She likes to know where I am and I think it soothes her to know I'm safe.”

Martin allows himself a small smile in the dark. “That's nice. And she's your child with your first wife, is she?”

“Oh, really, are we going to do this now?” With a huff of air, Douglas resituates, leaning against the headboard. “Alright, if it'll let us get some sleep. Yes, she is. Angeline and I may not get along now, but there was a time when children seemed like a natural step. Of course, we both love our daughter very much, but...”

“I'm sorry,” Martin murmurs. “I shouldn't have said anything.”

“No, no, it's fine.”

He hesitates for a long moment before hedging, “You must have really loved her, once. To marry her, I mean.”

“I'm not sure.” Douglas pauses for a beat or two. “That is, I thought I did at the time. It was a complicated situation.”

Martin sits up quickly. “Oh god, she wasn't, you know--”

“Pregnant? It is nearly 2010, Martin, you're allowed to say the word in company now.” He laughs. “No, nothing like that. It's simply that for a time I thought there might have been someone else. I was mistaken and possibly rushed into things with Angeline a bit quicker than I should have.” With a shrug, he adds, “It's in the past now.”

How nice to have a life that works that way. Martin clears his throat, lowering himself back down onto the pillow.

“You know,” Douglas continues. “You rather remind me of him.”

“ _Him?_ ” Martin squeaks before he can stop himself.

He can practically hear Douglas' eyeroll. “Yes, him. Again, this is hardly 1950 and even if it were, men have been involved with men for--”

“I know that!” interrupts Martin, roughly. “I mean, of course I do. I just didn't think _you_ \--”

“Consider me an equal-opportunist, if you must. I hadn't thought you of all people would mind.”

Martin coughs, clenching and unclenching his hands around the blankets. He resolutely does not allow his mind to wander where it wants. Quickly, he demands, “What do you mean, me of all people?”

“Martin...”

“Alright, alright. We both know why. Because I'm-- because I'm gay, right?” Martin can just sense his face turning bright red and thanks whatever deity he must for the darkness that hides it. “Although how _you_ know--”

“Martin, don't be ridiculous.”

He coughs, refusing to answer.

With a heavy sigh, Douglas shifts on the bed until he's-- _oh god!_ \-- until he's leaning over Martin. “Now, see, despite my directions the exact thing you are being at this moment is ridiculous. I don't _care_ , you know. If anything-- well. It doesn't matter.”

Martin leans up, squinting at the other man. “No, go on. If anything?”

“If anything,” Douglas slowly says, unblinking in his eye contact, “I'm pleased by the fact more than I possibly should be.”

“Oh? But why would _you_ \-- oh.”

“Yes.”

Martin's heart begins to race, hammering against his ribcage loud enough that he's sure the occupants of the next room must be able to hear it. For a few seconds, breathing is beyond his abilities and he is incapable of doing anything but staring. “Oh. I... really?”

For once, Douglas looks uncomfortable. It is a sight Martin wishes to never see again. “Yes, really. But, look, we can forget all about--”

Instead of letting him finish, Martin takes the initiative, leaning upward and closing the last few inches of space between them to bring their mouths together for a kiss.

It's nearly as good as flying.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was only the most difficult chapter yet, for some reason. My apologies for the delay and the rather filler-sense of it, but things are starting to get rolling after this.

**1979:**

“And,” Douglas finishes, kicking the door shut behind them, “the bedroom and loo are just off through the living room over there.” He shrugs, glancing around. “It's small, but I find that it works for me. You'll take the bed, of course. The sofa will suit me fine.”

Martin starts. “Oh, no, I couldn't, that--”

“Age over beauty, Captain. Really, it's no problem at all.”

“Age over--” Sputtering, Martin indignantly cries, “ _You're_ the one that claimed you were old enough to be my--” He cuts off suddenly, throat threatening to close.

“Old enough to be your what?” Douglas prompts, cocking an eyebrow.

“Er, nothing. Not important.” Martin runs a hand through his hair, removing his coat and folding it over the arm of the wingback chair nearest to him. “The bed will be fine, thank you.”

“You are a mysterious man, Martin,” Douglas allows. He drops his things just inside the door, turning on his heel. “Fancy another beer, then?”

“Really? Another? Are you sure you should--”

Douglas reappears, eyes narrowed. “I'm sure that's not any of your business, I know that much.”

Martin flushes, mentally berating himself. “No, yes, you're right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything.”

“Mmm.” Waving this off, Douglas disappears once more, leaving Martin free to wander the living room in his curiosity. He has known Douglas-- _a_ Douglas, at least-- for five years, and yet this younger version is a virtual stranger to him. The urge to peer through his possessions and photos is overwhelming and irresistible. It's in the middle of his investigations that Douglas finds Martin, one framed photograph in hand as he scrutinizes the people within.

“Ah, yes, last year's ski trip,” Douglas tells him, glancing over his shoulder and taking a long pull from the bottle in his hand. “That would be me on the end there with my arms around the aforementioned Angeline.”

Martin swallows hard, memorizing the sight of the sleek, graceful woman with her head tipped back in laughter. “Your fiancée?” he hazards, knowing that Douglas' first marriage was due to occur sometime within the year.

“My--” Douglas snorts, setting his beer down and gently prying the photo from Martin's hands. “Hardly. She's a lovely girl of course, and great fun, but I wouldn't say she's the marrying type.”

Martin wonders what will change.

“Come on, then. There's a game due to start soon.”

“Er, football?” Martin guesses. “I'm not much-- that is, I don't really watch--”

“Ah.” Douglas glances him over, a quizzical expression in his eyes. “What _do_ you do then, Captain?”

“I... fly planes.”

“Well, yes, for work. I meant in your free time. Your hobbies.”

Martin turns away, aware of the deep burn of embarrassment in his cheeks. “So did I.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” To his surprise, Douglas laughs. “You are one of a kind, Crieff. Don't think I've ever known anyone quite like you.”

“You'd be surprised.” Martin turns away, ignoring the dark pain of longing and want in his chest. This Douglas is not _his_ Douglas, and he must remember that, no matter the cost. “I wanted to thank you, again, for letting me stay with you for a few days. Not many people are willing to do that for some stranger they met in a pub. It's generous of you, really.”

Douglas shrugs. “Well, you're hardly the axe-murdering type. And I couldn't very well leave you to sleep on some cold, wet park bench, could I? Of course you're welcome.” He hesitates. “Martin, perhaps this is not my place to say anything, but a man like you doesn't just appear out of thin air. If there's something--”

“You're right,” Martin interrupts, voice low and jagged. “It's not your place.” As far as appearing out of thin air, well.

Douglas recoils slightly. “I'm just saying, if you'd like to talk, maybe an outside perspective--”

“There's nothing you can do to help,” he snaps. Silence creeps into the room. “I... I'm sorry. Thank you, Douglas, but there really is nothing you can do. I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine.”

Martin laughs, bitter and joyless. “I'm going through a few recent changes, that's all. It'll be fine. Eventually.” He dimly recalls an older man in a cafe, seated on the other side of small table, his face pinched and drawn as he explains Martin's past and future. That it would all work out was gratefully repeated more than once, though he is starting to suspect a few key points were left out. “It should be fine.”

Douglas nods, eyes sharp. “Okay then. If you're sure.” He crosses toward the sofa, sinking onto the cushions and patting the seat beside him. “In that case, it's time for us to sit here, get royally pissed, and watch as much terrible telly as we can manage.”

Martin manages the ghost of a smile. “I think... I think I'd like that.”

And so three hours pass until Martin feels less and less like screaming and crying over the unfairness of it all, until that last image of _his_ Douglas begins to fade and all he can remember is the broken, chilling way he heard his name called out for the last time--

“Martin?”

He blinks rapidly, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks. “Douglas?”

“Is something--” Concern fills the space between them.

“I... thank you. You're a good man. Friend, even. A very... a very good friend. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

It is a long night, though shorter than it should be. Martin is indebted.


	7. Chapter 7

**2010:**

They nearly don't make it to Douglas' flat, hands grasping and groping, pausing for devastating, breathless kisses. By the time they stumble through the door, they are both beyond the ability to be patient, slamming one another into walls and using lips, tongues, and teeth with intent as they quickly strip. Martin cries out. Douglas groans, low and vibrating deep within his chest. It doesn't last long, Douglas' hand wrapped around Martin's as they stroke themselves to a ruinous end.

Sated, they slump against one another and pant in the sudden heaviness of the room, silent save for--

“I think you should move in.”

Martin jerks upright, eyes wide. “ _What?_ ”

“I think,” Douglas repeats slowly, “that you should move in.” He quickly holds up a hand to kill Martin's forming protests. “Hear me out. You're here half the time anyway. We get along-- at least our version of it-- and we've been dating or whatever we're calling this for over a year. You hate that attic and I have plenty of space here. It's ridiculous to expect you to keep living like you are.”

Martin tenses. “Living like I am? What's wrong with how I'm living?”

“Oh, come on now, you know that isn't what I meant. You're miserable, that's all I'm saying. And if I can help--”

“That's just it.” Extracting himself, Martin pulls away and begins to right his clothing. “You, helping me. I don't want to be helped. If I move in, I want to pay my share, not be dependent on you. And we both know that I can't do that, not yet.”

“Martin, really--”

“Well, I can't!” He presses his lips together, glancing away. “I won't be some charity case, not for you or for anyone. Being a man with a van doesn't pay enough for my half, not when we're flying Gertie around the world most of the time. I'm sorry, Douglas. I just can't.”

Douglas heaves a great sigh, sitting up and pulling his trousers back over his hips. “Alright, alright. It was just a thought. A rather good one, but just a thought nonetheless. That bloody van...”

Frowning, Martin interjects, “Hey. That van's done me a lot of good. It keeps me in food and home and I certainly wouldn't be able to work for Carolyn without it. Besides, it was my dad's.”

“Your-- your dad's?” A curious quality comes over Douglas.

“Yeah, when he died. He left Simon and Caitlin money, of course, but I got the van. I think he was worried that I'd waste it on trying to become a pilot.” Martin sinks to his knees, leaning over to dig around under the sofa for his shoes. “I would have, of course, but he didn't have to practically tell everyone that he thought I'd never make it. I know he wanted me to be an electrician like him, but his _van?_ ” He straightens up, glancing over his shoulder. “Honestly, it-- Douglas?”

Douglas is pale, brow furrowed, an uncharacteristic look of loss and confusion in his expression. “An electrician?”

Martin nods slowly. “Yes. All my life, he worked--” Suddenly, it hits him, that this must have to do with what's to come. “Ah. You knew him, that's right. He, uh, he didn't tell you that?”

“No.” There's a funny sort of clenched sound to Douglas's voice, the usual velvety tones and smooth, crisp melody gone. “No, he said he was a pilot. Captain, actually. I thought-- I suppose I thought it ran in the family. He spent a lot of time talking about planes.”

“You, er, you knew him a long time, then?”

Douglas rises to unsteady feet, turning his back as he buttons his shirt methodically. “Actually, no. Little more than a weekend, I'd say. He... well, he was the sort to leave an impression.”

Martin flushes. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have--”

Waving this off, Douglas takes a deep breath before turning around. There is clearly a mask over his features now, a falsehood hiding the turmoil behind the surface. “No, it's quite alright. You should be able to mention the man. I just don't understand why he would have lied.”

“Maybe--” Martin's mouth is dry, his tongue sticking to his teeth. He tries again. “Maybe he had his reasons.” Immediately, he winces. It is too much, this charade, far more than he can bear. The thought of another lie, another cover-up, brings the taste of bile to his tongue. So instead, he says, “No, that's not-- Douglas?”

“Hmm?”

He's shaking now, trembling violently, and his heart is hammering against his ribs. “Sit down.”

Douglas turns, paling further at the sight Martin presents. “Good lord, what is it? You look like you've seen Marley himself.”

“Douglas,” Martin croaks, “please sit down. I think-- I think we should talk.”

***

It takes the half the night and well into morning for Martin to tell Douglas everything.

“I don't understand.” It's the first thing Douglas has said in hours, having silently listened while Martin talked himself hoarse. “That couldn't have been you. He couldn't-- you wouldn't-- it can't be.”

Martin licks his lips, staring intently at his lap. “It is. You have to realise, it didn't start with you. Half my life, people have been talking about meeting someone who looked just like me, or how they knew my father when they didn't. I mean, for god's sake, I've met him-- me-- whoever it is myself. We've talked.”

“So you've said.” Douglas leans away, toward the arm of the sofa, hands gripping his knees. “You've talked. And he-- you-- said that you would...”

“End up in 1979 when I'm thirty-seven, yes.” Martin reddens. “I know how it must sound. I know you probably think I've gone completely mad. But you don't know what it's been like. It's _me_. I know it is.”

“Thirty-seven,” Douglas echoes shakily. “That's only three years.”

“Two years and eight months.”

Springing to his feet, Douglas whirls around, “You know the _day?_ I can't believe--”

“Please, it's true, he told me--”

“No!” Fire in his eyes, Douglas jerks away from Martin's outstretched hand, ignoring the concern in his eyes. “No, see, this can't be true. Because you wouldn't have... you wouldn't have done that.”

Martin freezes, blood running cold. “Done what?”

“You wouldn't have, because you're bloody _Martin_. You're young, you're a git, and you're Martin.” He clenches his fists, living them at his side. “And you certainly wouldn't have gone so long without telling me. You wouldn't have let this-- this _thing_ between us happen knowing that you were going to leave in--” He stops suddenly, the whites of his eyes growing larger. “Oh, god. Are you coming back?”

Martin cannot meet his gaze. He cannot bring himself to say the damning words, though he must. “I... don't know. The last time I, er, met me was in '98. He wasn't too far off from Carolyn's age.”

“Oh god.” Douglas repeats this a few times, in a thin and aching way. “Oh my god. Martin...”

“Please, I--”

With a shake of his head, Douglas crosses the room to pick up Martin's captain's jacket. Softly muttering, “The captain,” he keeps his back to the rest of the room and thrusts the garment outward. “I think you should leave.”

Horror rising, Martin jumps up and makes as though to join him. “Douglas, _please_.”

“Martin.” His tone books no room for argument. “I need you to go. Now.”

Swallowing painfully, Martin nods and cautiously reaches for his jacket. He slips it on silently and pauses in the doorway. “I... I didn't mean for any of this to happen.” Moments later, the click of the front door rings out.

The walk to his empty attic is cold, long, and dark despite the rising sun.

He does not notice.


	8. Chapter 8

**1979:**

“Well then, _Captain_ \--”

“Please,” Martin cuts in, “Call me Martin. Martin will do just fine.”

“Indeed it will,” Douglas mutters before smiling wide and loose. “Like I was saying, _Martin_ , there's no need to look like a rabbit on the verge of bolting. Sit back, have a pint, and tell me all about how a nice man like you has ended up in a place like this.”

Martin lifts a shaking hand, wrapping it gratefully around the glass shoved across the table toward him. “Right. I, er, I'm not exactly sure... where _are_ we?”

Douglas laughs, the clear, crisp sound of it striking Martin deep beneath his ribs. “Been pub-trolling already? Can't say I haven't done the same thing a few times myself, but as it's quite not the weekend yet...” He laughs again, swigging back a shot and setting the glass beside the other empties that litter the space before him. Waving an arm around, he announces, “Welcome to the Snake and Raven, Captain. The finest drinking establishment to be found in the admittedly lacking downtown area.”

“Charming,” Martin replies a half-beat too late. He glances around the pub, taking in sights never seen before; the far, dark corner with the dart board (which seems like a safety hazard to Martin more than anything), the crowded, faux-wood bar, the chipped tables staggered about. While he has never been one for the 'scene', as it were, he can't recall ever seeing this place before. He wonders when it will close. “Very... charming.”

“Oh, it's an utter dive,” Douglas affectionately corrects. “But there's something about the place, don't you think?” At Martin's expression, he chuckles. “No, no, fair enough. Angeline is the same way, absolutely refuses to step foot in here.”

“Angel--” Martin chokes out, wondering how he never put it together before. Of course he would know Angeline now, they'll be married within the year, how stupid, _stupid_ \--

Eyes widening in alarm, Douglas pushes a cup of what is hopefully water over. “Are you alright?”

“Hmm?” Martin grasps for the water, chugging it down, mind whirling and turning as he does so. “No. Yes. I mean-- it's been a very strange day. Night? Is it night now?” He stands up suddenly. “Very nice to meet you. I should--” He can't do this, no matter what he has been said to have done. He can't continue with the charade. He _can't_ \--

“For god's sake, Martin, _sit down_ , before you start hyperventilating and keel over.”

That is the Douglas he knows, shining through for a brief moment. That is the voice and the command of the man he-- damn it, of the man he _loves_ , if he's being frank about it. The order and the demeanour are both so crushingly familiar that Martin is helpless to disobey.

“D-Douglas...”

“Yes, yes, that is my name.” He furrows his brow, leaning over the table to peer close. “How many have you had, Martin?” Rising, he crosses around to stand before Martin, one hand lightly resting against his cheek while the other tilts his chin toward the light. “Have you hit your head?”

“My head?” Martin's pulse is racing, thundering through his veins. “I-- no. Not recently.”

“Mmm.” Douglas drops his hands and Martin senses the loss keenly. “You're sure that you're alright?”

Taking a deep breath and steadily reminding himself that this is _not_ the man he has known for the past five years, that one simple look can make that clear enough, he slowly nods. “Yes. Yes, I'll be just fine. I've had... something of a day.”

“So I've gathered.” Douglas returns to his seat, eyes narrowed as though he's not quite sure if he should believe him.

“I'm rather new to the area,” Martin blurts out.

With a smile, Douglas relaxes minutely. “Well, that's alright then. New job?”

“Not exactly. It was sort of a sudden move.”

Douglas pauses, pint glass halfway to his mouth. “Wanderlust?”

“Something like that.” Martin mentally cringes, averting his gaze. “You look like someone I knew. Once. It's a little jarring, is all. I'm sorry if I've made you think--”

Waving this off, Douglas happily tells him, “No worries, Captain. We can all be prone to homesickness from time to time after a sudden change.”

How little he knows. “Yes,” Martin dully echoes. “Yes, that sounds right. Like a hole has been carved from your chest and left behind, and even though you wanted to stay more than anything--” He stops suddenly, snapping his head up.

“Another?” Douglas asks after an awkward moment. “I think we could both stand another. Oh, barkeep!” He directs this over his shoulder, arm lifted in the air.

“How, erm.” Martin flushes, wondering how to proceed. The more he focuses on learning about this new man before him, the less time he'll have to spend on what he's left behind. “Have you been drinking long?”

“Tonight? Oh, no, just a few hours. In general?” Douglas laugh rings out. “Well, you know how it is, I'm sure. You're a pilot yourself, aren't you? The women, the booze, the jet-set life--”

Martin snorts. “Not exactly. I mean, drinking on the job, that's hardly regulation. And even before I was in a committed--” He can't bring himself to finish the words as reality sinks in.

“Oh?” Douglas asks curiously. “Have a girlfriend, do you? Go on, then, what's she like?”

Martin shakes his head suddenly, violently, blinking rapidly as he looks away.

“Oh. _Oh_. Look, Martin, if I've said anything to--”

“No,” Martin manages. “It's just that things are fresh. I'm sorry, it's the smoke. My eyes, you know...”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Douglas clears his throat. “You left her, then? When you moved?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, then.” Clapping his hands together, Douglas grins at the girl that brings them their refills, saying, “To love won and lost, shall we? Here's to forgetting it until we can bear the remembering, eh?”

Martin smiles slightly, though he cannot bring himself to look at... _Douglas, he is Douglas_ , he reminds himself.

“Bottoms up, Captain. Douglas Richardson is on the case now. You'll see, things will right themselves before you know it.”

Martin glances around the unfamiliar pub in the town he doesn't recognize, as he sits across from this man he loves, knows, and can't recognize.

He doubts it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, getting into the very big plot points. Thank you to everyone who has stuck it out this far-- only one more chapter left!

**2013:**

On that last morning, they breakfast.

Douglas makes the omelettes and bacon while Martin allows himself seconds just this once. Together, they do the washing up and afterwards, they retire to the sitting room. Under threats of quitting, they have managed to convince Carolyn to book no flights and Martin needs no convincing to give Icarus a rest for the day, leaving them alone and free to enjoy each other's company for the rest of the time they have left. They wind up on the sofa, curled around one another in an all too familiar way.

“Do you want to watch something?” Douglas ventures after endless minutes of silence.

“No. I just... I just want to sit here.”

Douglas nods and the next fifteen minutes pass much like the first. “When,” he asks, “does it happen?”

Martin tenses, craning his neck to peer at Douglas from his spot curled up tight beside the man. “I don't know. I never thought to ask.” He can see Douglas biting some retort back, but it doesn't matter. He almost wishes the other man would say it.

“He never said?”

“No,” Martin admits. “No, he just said that today I would leave.”

“Maybe--” Douglas cuts off, clearing his throat. “Maybe it isn't today. Maybe it won't happen. Paradoxes aside, it could be very likely that you won't--”

“Please don't do this.” It's been three years since that fight that nearly ended things between them. Three years since Martin came clean about his future and Douglas' past, only for Douglas to force him out. Since then, it has been slow going, reaching a point where they could trust and try again, but they did and it made everything all the better. For the past year, Martin has been living with Douglas. Both men have toyed with the idea of a civil union, though they ultimately decided against it. Despite all this, a familiar argument of theirs has revolved around Martin's resignation that he will leave and Douglas' vain, optimistic hope that it is all a mistake.

“I'm just saying--”

Martin sighs, pulling away. “I know what you're saying. I'm asking you not to. You don't think that this is hard enough already? I don't need you trying to get our hopes up when we both know they won't be fulfilled.”

“Alright, alright,” Douglas replies, lifting his hands into a surrendering gesture. “Forgive me for hoping that the man I care about won't leave me forever by the end of the day.”

Martin cringes. “Douglas... I didn't mean...”

Douglas sighs, nodding slightly as he reaches to draw Martin closer. “I know. I'm sorry. It's just difficult.” Inhaling sharply, he looks skyward and continues, “Martin, there are a few things I want to say. In case I don't get the chance.”

“No.” Martin bolts upright, eyes wide. “No, Douglas, you can't. Please.”

“I need you to know--”

“ _Douglas_.”

Heaving a great sigh, Douglas closes his eyes and nods. “Alright. Not now. But soon.”

Martin deflates, agreeing after a beat or two have passed. “I just want to try to forget this and have a nice, quiet day with you.”

Quirking his lips into a smirk, Douglas lightly traces nonsense patterns over Martin's arm and up under his pajama t-shirt. “Not... _too_ quiet, I hope?”

The rest of the morning and afternoon are passed in a state of wonderful bliss. They fuck, twice, with Douglas lavishing attention and pleasure over Martin in a way he never has before. They do everything they can stand to do, and then some. Afterwards, sated and boneless, they sink against the sofa and watch their favourite movies while curled against one another. It would take a crowbar to separate them, Martin imagines, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

After awhile, the last movie looping through its menu for the fifth time, Douglas croaks, “Please, I have to say it.”

“If you do, it'll be like a goodbye.”

“We don't know-- maybe it _is_ a goodbye.”

Blinking rapidly, vision suddenly blurred, Martin nods. “Alright. Say it.”

Douglas pulls back just far enough to bring Martin's face into his hands. He takes his time, staring at the other man and tracing over his every feature as though hoping to memorize everything. Finally, he chokes out, “Thank you. For everything.”

“Douglas--” Martin brokenly manages.

“No, let me. I can't begin to thank you for these past few years, but they mean everything. I love you, Martin, in a way I have never loved anyone else. You have been my captain, my partner, and everything in between. I'm better for having known you.” Douglas licks his lips, looking away quickly. “And no matter what I may have said, meeting you back when I was still practically a kid, well... I wouldn't change that for anything. Do you understand? Everything-- everything you have done and been for me has been more than I dared expect or deserve.”

Martin leans forward, burrowing his face into Douglas' shoulder.

“So I want to thank you for just being in my life. Because without you...” Swallowing hard, Douglas cuts off with a shake of his head.

“I'm going to miss you,” Martin gets out, voice strangled with emotion. “I'm going to miss you so much.”

They sit here in silence for nearly a half-hour, struggling to bring their emotions under control.

After awhile, Douglas coughs and says, “Do me a favour. No matter where you are, if you manage to make it back to 2013, whether you come back or you-- you have to wait thirty-four years, will you do me a favour?”

“Anything,” Martin promises, and he means it. He means it with every inch of his being.

“Meet me at the airfield tomorrow. At seven in the morning, just outside the portacabin.” Douglas reaches for Martin's hands, gripping them tightly within his own. “If you can do that, meet me there. Please. I don't care how old you are, or whatever might happen, just--”

“I promise,” Martin breathes. “I promise that I will.”

Douglas lets out a sigh of relief. “Good.”

A few minutes pass in comfortable companionship until Martin's stomach rumbles loudly enough to echo through the room. He turns bright red.

“Is that so?”

“I--” Martin buries his face into his hands in embarrassment. “It's been hours since breakfast, I'm sorry.”

Douglas laughs, and it is the easy, familiar way in which he does that eases all of the tension from the room. “Don't apologize. You're right. How about some leftovers, then? I'll go heat up--”

“No!” Martin leaps to his feet, leaning over to peck his lips against Douglas' cheek. “You stay here. I'll get everything. I like the idea of waiting on you.”

“Well, if you insist...” Douglas grins, pulling Martin in for one last deep, searching kiss. Lightly smacking Martin's arse, he jokes, “Go on then. I'm bloody starving.”

With a laugh, Martin straightens and hurries toward the kitchen. He makes it halfway into the hall before a thought occurs to him, “Do you want the risotto or the--”

Everything has gone hazy, as though Martin is looking through frosted glass. He can see the outline of Douglas, see the man's horror-stricken face, but he can't move. A cry reaches his ears, a heart-wrenching cry of, “ _Martin!_ ” as Douglas stretches an arm outward, toward him. Martin struggles to meet the gesture, to grasp the hand searching for him, but finds he is frozen in place.

Slowly, everything grows dim.

“No!” he screams. “ _No!_ I don't want to go! I'm not ready! Please, don't make me--”

The last thing he hears is Douglas' voice, crying out his name over and over again.

Then everything goes black.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If we could travel into the past, it's mind-boggling what would be possible. For one thing, history would become an experimental science, which it certainly isn't today. -- Carl Sagan_

**1979:**

When Martin can see once more, he's standing in an unfamiliar pub. He's dressed in his uniform and save for this one tiny fact, nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Nothing, that is, except that Douglas is no longer nearby, that he is now in some pub instead of at home in his flat with his whatever-Douglas-is, and that the general fashion sense of the surrounding strangers seems to have regressed by about four decades.

Not that ordinary, then.

Trembling and rather significantly nauseated, Martin makes his way across the room and to the bar. He stands there for a few minutes, breathing heavily and clutching the polished wood with a grasp tight enough to leave fingerprints behind, and slowly tries to keep himself from passing out. He is moderately successful.

There is the sound of terrible music coming from the jukebox that threatens to deafen. There's a smell of peanuts and stale alcohol that permeates the room, and the taste of beer is in the air. It's a pub like nearly any other pub Martin has grudgingly been in, and while he hates all pubs on principle, it's almost soothingly normal.

That doesn't last long.

“Excuse me,” a painfully recognizable voice drawls, as smooth and crisp as ever, “but you seem to be having some sort of episode. Can I get you anything? Maybe a drink?”

Without turning around, Martin squeaks, “You think I'm in need of medical attention so you offer me a drink?”

“Purely medicinal, I swear.”

It takes every ounce of strength he has for Martin to turn around and face Douglas. No, not Douglas, because the man watching him with concern in his eyes is barely older than a kid. He's younger than Martin, obviously, and his hair is still a shocking dark brown rather than grey. His eyes are the same blue they've always been, but they seem brighter now. There are no lines on his face, no wonderful parentheses surrounding his lips or crow's feet shooting out from his eyes. It's Douglas, but it's not... it's not _Douglas_.

“Seriously,” he says after long stretch of time that threatens to get even longer. “Are you alright? Do you need something? Is there someone I can call for you?”

“No,” Martin croaks. He shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “No.”

“Mmm.” Douglas-who-is-not-Douglas seems disinclined to believe him, but Martin doesn't care.

“C-can you tell me if this is 1979?”

“Yes.” He drags the word out over several syllables, clearly taken aback and worried for this man who must seem to be suffering some sort of head injury. “Yes, of course. You didn't think--”

Martin forces a too-loud laugh, dropping his hands from the bar. “Ha ha, no, of course I knew that. Just-- just... testing you?”

“I see.”

“Well, I'll just be--” Martin moves to side-step this virtual stranger wearing his lover's face when an arm shoots out to block him.

“No, no. Clearly something's not right.” Douglas smiles, flashing that blinding charm he's always been known for. “Now, I meant it about that drink. Go find a table. Lager alright?”

Martin dimly nods. He watches the young man walk away and realizes that even the swagger in his step is the same-- and it hurts, _oh it hurts_. He does his best to forget the last look of Douglas he had, both minutes and decades ago. Instead, he takes a deep breath, reminding himself that he promised he would be strong, that he would make himself and Douglas proud, and stumbles toward the first empty table he sees.

Douglas appears a few moments later, two full pint glasses in one hand and two shots in the other. “I wasn't sure how you felt about tequila-- no?” He shrugs. “More for me then.” Sitting down, he slides one glass over to Martin and nods expectantly at it. Once Martin's dutifully taken a sip, he continues, “Now then. Before I start pestering you about why you look as white as Marley's ghost, I should probably introduce myself. I'm Douglas. Douglas Richardson.” He holds out a hand that Martin doesn't take, eventually dropping it back onto the table. With a troubled expression, he leans forward, lowers his voice, and asks, “Really, are you okay? You seem dreadfully upset. Did something happen? Do you need something?”

Martin shakes his head quickly. “No. No, I'm fine.” He takes a fortifying swig from his glass, coughing for a bit as it goes down the wrong pipe. Once Martin is sure he can properly breathe again, he gasps, “Thank you. For the drink. But I should--”

“No.” Douglas forcefully interrupts. “None of that. You'll sit right here, finish your drink, and let a stranger do his best to cheer you up, got it?”

With a sad smile threatening his lips, Martin nods. He misses Douglas so suddenly that it truly feels as if he has been hit in the chest by something large and blunt. The physical pain is excruciating for a few seconds.

Douglas knits his brow. “You're not from around here, are you? Christ, there's a line. I just meant--”

“No. No, I'm sort of... new to town. Very new.”

“Well then.” Douglas raises his glass. “Welcome to town, Mr-- oh, sorry, who are you, again?”

For years now, Martin has known what his fate would be. He has known that he would one day leave his life behind and be forced to start over alone and in an unfamiliar time. He has known that he would lose loved ones and that Douglas was included in that. He has a duty to maintain the past as well as he can so the future unfolds in much the same way, but more than that, he has a duty to remain strong and brave, not for his sake. For Douglas. Martin does not quit, not when the stakes are high, and he's not about to begin now. He knew this was coming and now that it has, this is no time to wilt and give in. Not today, not ever.

Martin straightens, squaring his shoulders. “Captain Martin Crieff. I'm Martin Crieff.”

***

**2013:**

He's nearly late and Christ, would that just be the icing on the cake.

For a moment, Martin doesn't recognize the airfield. It's been so long, so very long, and it is, to be fair, nearly twelve airfields ago. But slowly it comes back to him, as the taxi winds its way around the buildings. There, the original home of the Flap and Throttle. And there, the old hanger, home to Gerti (he aches to stop the car and run to see the old girl, but there will be time enough for that). In the distance, he can see Dirk pretending to be busy as usual.

Eventually they pull up to the portacabin, and there, pacing anxiously outside the doors, stands First Officer Douglas Richardson.

Martin forgets how to breathe for a few seconds, memory crashing down around him.

Deciding to take it one step at a time, he asks the cabbie to stop. He focuses on counting out the right bills before thrusting them at the driver. Then he grabs his hat, takes one last glance in the mirror, and centres his attention on stepping out of the taxi and walking toward the nervous figure before him.

“We're not open yet,” Douglas snaps at him without looking up. “Sorry.”

Martin smiles at this rudeness, grateful to know he is not the only one undergoing a tumult of emotions. “I'm not a client.”

The reaction is instant. Douglas snaps his head up fast enough to induce whiplash. His eyes widen, the colour drains from his face, and his lips begin to tremble. “M-Martin? Oh god, Martin, is that you?”

For Martin, it has been thirty-four years since he last set foot on this ground and talked to this man. Thirty-four years. He's an old man now and has spent the past few years worrying no little amount about this meeting and what Douglas might say when he saw the elderly person that has taken the place of his once-young lover. Martin is bald, has a permanent hunch to his shoulders, more wrinkles than he can count, he's lost a few inches he really couldn't afford to give, and he's pretty sure that he has some honest-to-god liver spots forming.

Swallowing hard, he nods and steps closer. “Yes. I know, I look awful, but it's been a long--” Martin cuts off with a gasp as he is scooped up into a rib-crushing embrace. He can feel wetness as Douglas burrows his face into the crook of his neck, and Martin blinks, his own tears threatening to form.

“You idiot, who cares what you look like? Oh god, I've missed you. Once night and I've missed you so much.” Douglas pulls away, staring hard into his eyes. “It's really you. Watching you leave like that, you have no idea how horrible--”

“I have some idea,” Martin points out.

“I know it's silly, but good lord, I've missed you.”

He cranes upward, pressing his lips to Douglas' for the first time in over three decades.

“You know,” Martin croaks out as he loses the battle and a few tears fall, “I rather think I've missed you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it. I've finished. I can't believe it at all. Thank you to everyone who has read this, who has left kudos, or who has commented. Just a huge thank you to everyone even glancing at this.


End file.
